


lesser bells

by tree



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: a random assortment of orphaned fragments that didn't quite fit where they were meant to go.





	1. words for empty and words for full

**Author's Note:**

> whatever i write, there are always bits that end up not quite working out; they can be anything from a single metaphor to several hundred words. i save them because you never know when you'll be able to use something in another context, but also because it's hard to let them go. so i thought i'd post some of the orphans that have been hanging around a while and thereby get rid of them without having to just flush them down the drain. the chapter titles refer to the fic for which the snippet was originally written. each one should be considered complete in and of itself. i will not be writing more for any of these so please don't ask.
> 
> the title comes from this passage in _The Cold Dish_ : "It was the sound of bells, the sound of thousands of miniature bells, not finely tuned ones, but lesser bells, handmade bells." it seemed apt.

  

Walt's not drunk, exactly. Possibly a little impaired but certainly not inebriated. He's sure of that. Which is why it's a bit of a mystery how he's ended up with Vic pinned between him and the wall in a linen closet off a corridor they found behind a door marked 'Employees Only'.

There was a party; there _is_ a party. He knows that much. Henry and the casino and champagne and Vic in that dress and _oh_.

It's the dress's fault.

Or maybe not the dress, but Vic _in_ the dress. When she walked in tonight he'd swear to god that everything just stopped.

Every time he'd gotten near her he'd had to touch her. 

But that still doesn't explain why one of his hands is sliding up, up, up the inside of her thigh under the soft lace of her dress, and he's desperate to get any part of himself inside her.

Wait. Now he remembers. 

She'd said, "You've got to stop looking at me like that."

He'd said, "Like what?"

She'd said, "Like you want to fuck me right here."

And he'd leaned down, brushed his lips against the rim of her ear, and said, "But I do."

  


	2. strange berry

  

His voice was confusingly arousing.

There was something about it in general—the tone, or cadence, or pitch—that sometimes made her brain shut off. It usually only happened on long rides when it was too cold to roll the windows down, or when they were alone in his office in the early morning or late evening. She had to believe he had no idea that there were times when she just sort of melted inside her skin around him. The alternative was too humiliating to consider.

  


	3. bite it through

  

It's as gentle and sweet as the first time, and yet entirely different. She feels tentative, very nearly shy. Kissing him in the hospital hadn't been about desire; she never would have done it if she'd known he'd wake up. It had been an impulse born of fear and sadness and goodbye; it had been a single memento to take with her, a secret to keep for herself, solace, some minor resolution for everything gone unresolved.

Now is so much better than last time because he's kissing her too, and pulling her closer with his big, warm hands. When she leans away to catch her breath he follows, mouth chasing hers, and she has to dive back in to kiss him some more. He makes this soft, rumbling sound in his throat when her fingers slip beneath the edge of his collar and she's mentally calculating the logistics of getting them both on the front seat of his truck. But then he pulls back just enough to look at her, and he cups her face in his hands, and he's wearing this sweet smile, and he says, "Vic," in a voice she's never heard before, full of happiness and wonder. 

The cold air is a shock against her warm, damp lips.

"Let me walk you to the door," he says.

She shakes her head. "I don't think that's a good idea." His grin spreads wide and cocky and she laughs. "Oh my god, you're such a guy."

"What?" he asks with feigned innocence.

Vic just rolls her eyes because encouraging him is only going to get her into trouble. Hot, sweaty, naked trouble... _Jesus, Moretti, get it together._ "Go home," she tells him firmly. "I will see you tomorrow."

  


	4. i want you to see the hole in my shirt where your heart went through like a Colt 45

  

Lying on the couch, her eyes strain against the darkness. She turns on her side to face away from the door just in case. Her heart's beating too hard to be restful, and her body— her body is waking up. The staccato pulse of fear is slowing, deepening, spreading heat through her veins. Eyes closed or open she sees Walt wet and shirtless, wants to lap at the water on his skin.

Desire is warm and heavy, pressing her down. She's imagined it, him, before, of course she has. But all this new and vivid detail of reality is a deluge. Confusion and lust course through her veins.

She licks her dry lips, bites down hard, because she will not (she will _not_ ) get herself off while he's in the next room. What if he opened the door? The light would be enough to see her by and he'd know exactly what she's doing. He'd be embarrassed, probably disgusted. She'd never be able to look at him again. 

_But what if he's not?_ whispers a sly voice inside her. What if he watched? What if he—

No. Shit. No. God. _Stop._

  


	5. how archaeology happens

  

The sound of a car coming up the driveway has Walt rising cautiously from where he's crouched next to Chance Gilbert in the dirt.

It's his Bronco.

The compound's floodlights reflect off the windshield so he can't see the driver, but he knows it's Vic. 

She pulls up next to him and slides out without turning off the engine, stumbling as she rounds the door. Up close her face is streaked with dirt and blood.

She stares at him as if at a ghost.

"Walt?"

"It's all right now," he tells her, stepping closer.

"Your arm," she says. A tear runs down her cheek. 

All day he's burned cold and implacable as a glacier but that single drop of salt water melts him down to almost nothing.

"It's fine. Just a scratch. Turns out Chance has pretty poor aim." He's hoping to get a smile out of her, but she just looks at him with those haunted eyes that make him wish he'd shot to kill after all.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know Chance lived here. I didn't—"

"No, no, no," he says quickly, appalled that she could think any of this is her fault. He reaches out, wanting to touch her but not knowing how or where to do it without hurting her. After a moment of hovering in the the air between them, his hand finally alights just above her elbow. "We need to get you to the hospital. Where's Ed?" he asks, as the absence registers.

"Gone."

"Sean?"

Her slightly vacant expression worries him. "He... I... saw your truck. Ed stopped and I... I had to..."

Underneath his hand Walt feels her tremble and sway. "It's okay. We'll call it in, get some help out here."

He settles Vic in the passenger seat of the Bronco and radios the station. He finds a bottle of water on the floor in the backseat and makes her drink some. Her hands are cold, her eyes glassy.

With every minute his rage grows hotter.

  


	6. hot knife

  

Vic's knees choose that moment to slide out from under her.

They both laugh at the same time.

"How sexy am I?" she asks, shaking her head against the mattress.

"Very," he says into her neck, and the fact that he's serious, he really does think she's sexy even when embarrassing things happen in bed, does funny things to her heart.

It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to her during sex, but when you're only in the second week of your relationship, you sort of want to maintain the illusion of being at least a little cool in bed. Then again, she did make him come in his pants the third night they were together and she's pretty proud of that.

  

* * *

  

He scrambles her brain with his smile and his hands and the things he says when he's inside her: praise and nonsense and broken bits of half-formed things that feel private, as if he doesn't mean to let them out but can't help it. As if this is what she does to him, this strong, silent man; she fills him up with words. While he, he takes all of hers away, scatters them in the wind, leaving her only sounds with no shapes behind them.

  

* * *

  

Like this, she can't explain it, but it's the same for her every time. She'd thought the first night was a fluke, that all the waiting and tension and fear had built up to create something extraordinary that could never be repeated. And she hadn't been sorry because the way she'd felt had been overwhelming, too much. It still is. Even when it's fast and dirty on the kitchen table — which, holy shit, she'd loved — there's still that sense of something more. It frightens her and it fills her with what she can only call joy: a happiness so pure and clear it inspires its own ache.

  

* * *

  

"Can we talk about what happened earlier?"

She raises her eyebrows and tries to play it off. "Do you really need me to explain sex to you?" But he just stares at her, his eyes so blue and concerned, and she sighs. Of course he wants to talk about it. "Walt, it was nothing. Just a reflex, a memory of a reflex."

"If I did something," he says slowly, "if I ever do something that makes you—"

"No, it wasn't you. It was nothing you did, okay? I promise I'd tell you. I just... when I couldn't move I got scared. But it was just a blip and then it was gone."

He's studying her, processing everything in that complicated head of his. "Ed Gorski," he says finally.

Sometimes she thinks it might've been a mistake to have told him about that, but since she did she just nods. "But now it's over. It's gone. It was a ghost and that was an exorcism." She frowns for a second. "Which makes you a priest in this metaphor and that is just very, very wrong, even for me. Sister Benedicta would be horrified."

"Sister Benedicta?"

"Catechism studies. The joys of Catholic school."

"Right."

  


	7. infinitives

  

Craning her neck, she looked back at the shadows that made up his face. "For the record, if you'd died trying some kind of heroic shit for my sake, I would've never forgiven you. I would have dug up your fucking grave and brought you back to life just so I could kill you again myself for being such a stupid asshole."

"Who says romance is dead?"

She could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  

* * *

  

It was impossible to argue with that kind of gut-level response because she felt exactly the same way about him. But she could still remember the burn of resentment and humiliation she'd felt when he ordered her off the Chance Gilbert investigation like she was just some victim who couldn't handle herself. The sense of betrayal.

"You really pissed me off that day," she told him. "You undermined me and treated me like I was weak."

He exhaled heavily against the back of her neck. "I know. Calling Travis... it was the wrong way to handle it. But at the time I couldn't see how else to protect you."

"So you decided to hide me and use yourself as bait," she said flatly. "Without consulting me. My life was worth more than yours because I was pregnant?"

"Your life was worth more to me because it was yours. It had nothing to do with you being pregnant."

"Jesus, Walt," she whispered, shaken.

  


	8. some wild and necessary hunger

  

This is how the trees must ache in spring, says a stray thought. This is how the flowers must feel when the first buds push tentatively through, or the colt on its wobbly legs in the first moments it rises up and stands triumphant but still so vulnerably new. That's the only way he can explain the tender spot tucked up behind his breastbone: life bursting forth and blooming so ardently it has to hurt.

Vic's skin is unbelievably soft underneath his hands; he can't seem to stop touching her. Drifting in reverie, he's been tracing the shape of her bones beneath the flesh: running over the straight line of her clavicle, the wings of her shoulder blades, the strong curve of her jaw, the long stretch of her spine. He's drawn mental maps of all the freckles he can find.

On further consideration of his metaphors, Walt has to admit that his mind might not be as clear as he originally thought. The first one, at least, is a little too whimsical for him. More Cummings than Frost. Then again, Cummings could be practically pornographic at times.

"As the wise sea steals entirely and skillfully the ignorant earth," he says quietly to Vic's sleeping form, wryly amused at the truth of the metaphor. Her _wise sea_ has indeed stolen his _ignorant earth_ _entirely and skillfully_. And there was something about _inward stealing thighs_ in that poem, as well, though he can't recall the exact words. He certainly has no complaints about Vic's thighs. They're lovely.

With a brisk mental shake, Walt makes an effort to rein in his slightly unhinged train of thought. They both need rest, Vic especially. He needs to focus.

  

* * *

  

She watches as Walt puts hot sauce on his eggs and wonders if he'll taste spicy the next time they kiss. She'd really like to lean over the table and plant one on him to find out, but she's not sure if the two of them are there yet. Fucking out of necessity is one thing, but casually kissing him just because she wants to would mean something else entirely. Vic's not sure she's ready for that.

  

* * *

  

"Oh my god, what are you, twelve?" 

He raises one eyebrow with a pointed look and, no, he's definitely not twelve. The mood between them goes from playful to heated in a heartbeat. Vic is spellbound, staring at him, and he's staring back, and it's like some kind of sorcery he's performing on her with his eyes. They just did it like an hour ago, even less if she counts the time they spent tied together, but fuck she wants him. If she could move, she'd be dragging him down to the floor right now.

Walt clears his throat and the tension pops like a soap bubble. She tries to ignore the way her heart's pounding and how wet she is as they grin at each other and go back to cleaning up.

  

* * *

  

"Are you freaking out now?"

Vic's hoarse mumble surprises Walt from his silent litany of self-castigation. They're the first words either of them has spoken since they've been tied together. 

His heart is still pounding as though it's trying to escape out of his chest. He stares at the back of her head, the way sweat has darkened the pale strands around her hairline, while inside him churns a maelstrom of self-directed horror and disgust. Never in his life has he even contemplated treating a woman the way he's just treated Vic.

She deserves a response, but he's bereft of words. Nothing can justify the things he'd said, the things he'd _done_ to her. Walt's aghast at how wholly his baser instincts had subsumed every other part of him.

If that qualifies as freaking out, then he is definitely freaking out.

"'Cause if you are, you need to stop," she adds.

He'd used her, debased her, and he'd gloried in it. For god's sake, he'd _choked_ her. He's sickened by his own behavior. "Vic, I... I'm so—"

"Walt, if you apologize I swear I will punch you."

Her threat wrings a strangled, confused, helpless breath of laughter out of him. He's at such a loss, so at sea that all he can do is let her anchor him. They're still tied together, adhered to each other's skin by sweat in every place they touch. She's totally relaxed, as pliant against him as melted wax, with not an ounce of tension in her. Walt can't fathom it.

"We got a little kinky," she says. "Don't make it into something it isn't." Her voice holds no judgement or censure; it's weary but gentle, the words slightly slurred as though she's too tired to fully open her mouth.

He rubs his forehead against the nape of her neck with a sigh. _Something it isn't._ He's still trying to comprehend the something it _is._

"I don't... I've never done anything like that before," he manages haltingly. The words are laughably inadequate.

Until now, Walt had naively believed that the animal in him had been in total control during their matings. Perhaps he'd needed to believe it in order to overcome his own shame enough to assuage Vic's. Now he truly comprehends how wrong he's been. Some part of him had been resisting all along, preventing him from succumbing entirely.

After a moment, Vic's hand reaches for his and tangles their fingers together. He wonders how she can stand to touch him.

"This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"Vic, I _hurt_ you! I treated you like, like—"

She barrels right over him. "Did I ask you to stop?"

"No," he admits.

"Did I push you away or try to stop you physically?"

"No, but—"

"No 'but's. I was into it just as much as you were. You didn't do anything I didn't want you to."

That seems impossible to him. "I assaulted you."

"Jesus, Walt. Is that what you think?" She blows out a deep breath. "I really wish we could do this face to face, but I don't want to give you time to get any more crazy ideas in your head. Listen to me, okay? This may not come out too well because I don't think I've ever been this tired in my entire life, but we need to get some things straight."

"Okay," he says when her pause seems to indicate she's waiting for a response.

"All right. First, yeah, you hurt me a little bit, but hurt isn't harm. There's a big difference. A little pain when things get intense is not harm. Look, it was a surprise for me, too. I mean, I've never been into that before, and I don't honestly know if I'd be into it any other time. Maybe we didn't have a conversation about limits or pick a safeword or whatever, but I do know that if I'd wanted you to stop, you would have stopped. You would have stopped, Walt," she says again, with more emphasis. "There's no doubt in my mind."

Right now he has nothing like her faith in him and feels unworthy of it. Yet hearing her say it, hearing the unshaken sureness in her voice eases some of the mortification he's feeling.

"Got it?" she asks briskly and he's reminded of watching her work, her confidence and skill.

"Got it."

"Good. Second thing. Are you going to stop respecting me suddenly because I let you dominate me during sex?"

"Of course not." The idea is absurd.

"So why would you think I'd stop respecting you for doing it in the first place?"

He can't think of a response to this absolution. 

"If you want me to accept that it's not weak or wrong for me to be this way, then you have to accept that it's not wrong or, I don't know, abusive, for you to be that way. It happened because we both wanted it. So if you feel bad about it then that means I have to feel bad about it too."

"I don't want you to feel bad about it. You did nothing wrong."

"Neither did you. I mean, yeah, you're such an asshole, making me come so many times."

He kisses her shoulder. He's not quite able to accept what she's said, but he trusts that she's telling him the truth. Right now, it's enough, and the burden of guilt that hangs over him lightens just a little.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the e.e. cummings quote is: "the you with the big inward stealing / thighs,perfectly who steal me;or as the wise / sea steals entirely the ignorant earth." from 'Lady,since your footstep'


End file.
